


Flip a Coin

by Jadelyn



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Depressed Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Depression, Episode Retelling, Episode: s01e02 Four Marks, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, could be either depending on your preference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-12 04:36:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28879593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadelyn/pseuds/Jadelyn
Summary: When Geralt has a choice to make and no particular investment in either outcome, he likes to flip a coin for it.Sometimes he uses the coin-flip for weightier decisions than just which direction to take at a crossroads.  It hasn’t worked yet, though - he’s still here.  Maybe this time will break the streak.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 4
Kudos: 95





	Flip a Coin

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to explore that space between wanting and doing, and the choices that get made there. So I wrote this. Part retelling, entirely reinterpretation. Please take care of yourselves, mind the tags, this does have a hopeful ending but there's a whole lot of morbid thoughts between here and there. 
> 
> (Projecting onto your favorite character and writing about it is a healthy way to deal with your own struggles with suicidal ideation, right fellas? Right?)

Geralt has many, many tools of death at his disposal. The swords, obviously, but a plethora of lesser blades as well, daggers and knives. A crossbow. The potions he carries, which are always poisonous to humans but, in sufficient quantities, can be dangerous for him as well.

And if anyone asked him - if anyone _knew_ to ask him why he hasn't turned any or all of them on himself, he genuinely wouldn't know how to answer.

It's not as if he hasn't thought about it. Not as if he doesn't think about it, constantly, with a sort of morbid longing.

And it's not as if he's got a ton of reasons not to, either. His brothers, his family would mourn, but…they're witchers. They don't get to retire. They go on until some creature bests them. It's an inevitable end, sure as the sun setting at the end of the day. They all know that at any time any of them might not come home again. They wouldn't have to know it wasn't a creature that got him.

The humans wouldn't fucking care. They'd rejoice, in fact; they'd celebrate the demise of the Butcher of Blaviken, right up until they found themselves being eaten by some foul beastie. And then they'd regret his loss, though not for any other reason than their own selfish need for him as a tool to ensure their continued survival.

He has one of his daggers in hand as he thinks about all this, spinning it idly around his fingers without looking. The edges catch his skin occasionally, mostly because he's not bothering to try to prevent it. It doesn't stop him, or even slow him down. The scent of his own blood is familiar. Almost soothing, in a way. Geralt snorts. That probably says more about him than he wants to think about.

He keeps his eyes trained on the saddlebags where they lean against a nearby tree, imagining he can see the tiny bottles packed in their straw cubbies within. He has enough to spike his toxicity through the roof, if he wanted to. Not a pleasant way to go, but effective. Two Black Blood, a Thunderbolt, White Raffards. Maybe a Cat or two, just because he's got extra on hand. If he really wants to seal the deal, he's got a single Petri's Philtre stashed in there. That, with any two of the others, would see him down in minutes.

And yet he doesn't move. Doesn't do anything more with the dagger even as it begins to grow slick with his carelessly spilled blood. Doesn't go to the bag with his potions and start pouring them down his throat. He wants to, he _wants_ to, but he doesn't. Something holds him back.

With a sigh, Geralt lets the dagger drop. He digs into his belt pouch for a coin, one of the handful he's got left from his last contract. There's a town, not far from here. He'll reach it in a day or two if he keeps going. Crown, he'll keep going til he reaches the town; crest, he'll down his whole goddamn potions stash or take the dagger to his jugular tonight and be done with it.

The coin twirls in the meager moonlight. Geralt snatches it from the air, slaps it down on the back of his hand and looks to see which side came up.

Crown.

_Fuck_.

* * *

He makes another deal with himself the next night. The coin toss didn’t favor him, but there are other ways to gamble, to stake a decision on the unknown. So: if there's a job for him in this town, and they actually hire him for it, it means he's still needed and he'll keep going. If there's nothing there, he'll spend what's left of his coin on a final drink, leave Roach there, and vanish into the wilderness never to be seen again.

He's not sure which he's hoping for.

(That’s a lie. He knows.)

* * *

There's no work for him in Posada. Geralt's shoulders drop with relief and he closes his eyes for a moment. Fucking _finally_. Now to see if the tavern will serve him at all, and if they'll let him stay long enough to drink away his last few crowns in peace before…well, before.

They will, and they do. That's good. Unexpected, a little, but good. He sits in a corner alone, away from people. The ale is shit, but no worse than he'd expected, and anyway it seems fitting. He'll die as he lived, alone and tasting shitty ale in the back of his throat.

He's got one coin left and is debating getting a last round before he leaves when the bard comes over to him. The boy goes from yowling to prattling in the space of the steps it takes him to cross the tavern to reach Geralt's table, but the noise is about equally unpleasant either way. He tells the little shit to go away. The little shit ignores it and sits down across from him.

Three words or less, the little shit demands. Geralt stares at him for a moment, expressionless and feeling hollow, before dredging up the first response that comes to mind.

"They don't exist." He's cringing internally even as he says it. It's almost as inane as the little shit's ridiculous 'bread in his pants' line.

The little shit demands clarification. Geralt answers, feeling sucked into this ridiculous conversation as though he lacks the ability to just stand up and walk away. The little shit challenges him on the matter of imaginary creatures, which would almost be funny except that it doesn’t bode well for the boy's intelligence if he can’t figure out what he’s talking to. Geralt doesn't answer that question, dreading where this conversation is about to turn as the little shit reasons his way through to the answer.

"I know who you are," the little shit says, even as Geralt stands, letting the last coin fall out of his purse to leave for the boy. He's an annoying little shit, but that's how bards make their living so it can't really be held against him, and thrown bread won't buy a room for the night. Besides, it's not like Geralt needs the coin for himself, and he'd rather get the hell out before the little shit blurts out what Geralt knows will come next. Maybe the coin will distract him.

It doesn't work. The little shit calls after him as he walks away, rather than making the sensible choice to shut the fuck up when your conversational partner leaves.

"You're the witcher, Geralt of Rivia!"

Wait. Not…

Huh.

But before he can really process that, he hears other heartbeats pick up behind him and silently curses the little shit for calling attention to him like that. One heartbeat becomes the thumping of footsteps as its owner gets up and follows after Geralt where he's nearing the door.

“A job I’ve got for ya,” the farmer calls after him. Geralt stops without really meaning to, staring dully out the open tavern doorway.

Fuck.

“A devil,” the yokel explains, drawing closer. “He’s been stealing all our grain.”

Geralt turns back halfway, reluctantly, feeling rather like a puppet being turned by its strings.

“In advance I’ll pay ya,” the farmer offers, “a hundred ducat.”

There’s something akin to hope in the poor bastard’s eyes when Geralt finally turns far enough to look at him. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

“One-fifty,” he demands roughly in a last-ditch attempt to get out of this. What kind of idiot would take a counteroffer of half again the initial price? And if the farmer turns it down, that still counts as not being able to get work because they wouldn’t give him the contract, and he can still -

But the man’s eyes brighten and he immediately pulls a surprisingly heavy sack of coin from within his tunic. “I’ve no doubt you’ll come through,” he says, holding it out. Behind the farmer, Geralt catches sight of the little shit who started this whole fucking mess wandering closer, watching. The farmer’s voice draws his attention back. “You take no prisoners, so I hear.”

A blazing wildfire of hatred flares to life in Geralt’s chest, and he’s not sure if he hates the farmer and his job, the little shit bard who got him into this, or himself worse. Jaw clenched on the snarl of rage in the back of his throat, he snatches the fucking purse from the farmer’s hand and stalks out.

* * *

The little shit catches up with him on the road out of town. “Need a hand?” he calls, jogging up next to Geralt. Sadly he keeps clear of Roach, who might’ve been obliging enough to give him a kick and scare him off.

“Go away,” Geralt growls. Since ‘I’m here to drink alone’ hadn’t been clear enough to work, he’ll have to be even more direct.

“I won’t be but silent back-up,” the little shit promises.

Sure, and Geralt is the secret princess of Nilfgaard. He doesn’t answer. The little shit prattles on and Geralt tunes him out as best he can. Some of it gets through anyway. Something about smelling onions?

“You smell of death, and destiny; heroics and heartbreak,” the boy declares grandly.

No, I _don’t_ smell of death, Geralt thinks but won’t say, because you wouldn’t fucking _let me_ , you pushy little wretch.

“It’s onion,” is all he says, flatly, wondering if there’s anything at all he can say that’s discouraging enough, nonsensical enough, or both to get the little shit to stop following him.

If there is, the onion comment wasn’t it.

“Ooh, I could be your barker!” the little shit declares, throwing his arms out. “Spreading the tales of Geralt of Rivia, the - the Butcher of Blaviken!”

Ah. There it is. Should’ve known it was too good to be true, the boy not throwing that fucking epithet in his face earlier. Should’ve known there would be no escaping it, even here at the edge of the world.

Geralt stops. Transfers Roach’s reins to his left hand, freeing his right. “Come here,” he tells the little shit, beckoning. The boy approaches eagerly, recklessly, without a trace of fear. Stupid of him.

He hits without trying to move fast or disguise the movement, and yet the boy still doesn’t move. He just stands there and takes the hit like a fucking moron. It does take some of the satisfaction out of it, not having had to work for it even a little bit, but it still makes Geralt feel a little better as the bardling drops, wheezing.

“Come on, Roach,” he says to her, feeling almost cheerful as he sets off again.

* * *

The little shit is _still following him_. Geralt mounted up when he reached the valley, and he’s considered pushing Roach into a canter and leaving the bard behind entirely, but it’s a hot day and he doesn’t want to overwork her if he doesn’t have to.

Besides, he doubts it would do any good. The little shit would surely just pop right up like a fucking weed wherever Geralt stopped.

Gods, he’s hard to tune out. The bard is still trying to pitch himself as Geralt’s barker, which is genuinely one of the more bizarre suggestions he’s heard in more than half a century on the Path, but the boy seems entirely committed to the idea. He’d almost give the little shit credit for his sheer bull-headed persistence, if it weren’t so fucking annoying.

Geralt tunes back in just as the little shit comes out with his ‘White Wolf’ nonsense, and it feels like a direct hit from a slyzard’s tail. As if he has any right to be called anything like that, anything but what he let himself become; as if it wasn’t true. As if he deserves any better. The boy is mocking him, he has to be.

“Butcher is right,” he says roughly. First this meddling little brat drags him off his chosen course onto some wild goose chase for a devil that doesn’t exist, then he dares to taunt Geralt with that offer, like it would be a trivial change. Like it wouldn't entirely upend everything Geralt knows to be true about himself and his life. He feels a twinge of regret for pulling his punch enough not to break the boy’s ribs earlier.

When the little shit tries to invite himself up on Roach, Geralt snaps at him to back off, which is the first thing the bastard bard has listened to all godsdamned day, and that’s it. That’s all he can deal with from the little shit. He hops down off Roach and ties her reins to a convenient tree, then stalks off.

* * *

The little shit is still. Fucking. _Following him._

Being told to go away in increasingly rude terms hasn’t worked. Punching him hasn’t worked. Riding off without him hasn’t worked. Walking away hasn’t worked. What the fuck is it going to take to shake this kid?

He’s prattling on, again - _still_ \- as Geralt makes his way into the sheltered maze of stone that he suspects he’ll find the thief hiding in. Devils don’t exist, but _someone_ is stealing the grain, and his money is on bandits of some kind. Maybe if he lets the boy make enough of a racket to draw them out, they’ll be able to scare the little shit off. Maybe. And maybe, if Geralt is really lucky, they’ll be well-armed and able to best him.

Doubtful, but a witcher can hope.

He doesn’t hear any of the usual signs of human habitation, though. He should be able to hear something, even over the bard’s increasingly dramatic attempts to get his attention, but there’s nothing. The smell isn’t right, either. Musky and a little sharp, with hints of ozone - not human at all. The only human scent is that of the little shit himself. Something is wrong.

Geralt hears the whistle of the projectile a split second before it hits him, hard, right in the center of his forehead. He jerks back and stumbles slightly; the boy acts like he’s watching a fucking play and all but applauds Geralt’s mysterious assailant for the dramatic sneak attack.

What the little shit doesn’t seem to realize is that it was a warning shot. Anyone - or any _thing_ \- fast enough to get a shot off and hit a witcher like that likely is good enough with their weapon that they could’ve put the little iron ball through his eye the first time and ended it that quickly, if they’d wanted to.

Why the fuck they didn’t, Geralt would very much like to know; and then he would like them to try again and get it right this time, please.

But he can’t say that, so he picks up the projectile and looks at it more closely as the little shit wanders further in, only looking up when he hears the awe in the boy’s voice as he says, “Geralt, it _is_ a devil!”

He watches silently and waits, and sure enough, the thing with the slingshot strikes again. Finally, blessed fucking silence. Geralt eases the foliage back, then rounds the rock formation and stalks forward slowly, trying to get a read on just what it -

The creature bursts from the brush and charges him, screaming, "Leave me be!"

It catches him square in the chest with enough force to throw him back a couple of yards. He lands hard, the line of his sword jammed into his back by the impact, and scrambles back to his feet between one breath and the next, not wanting to be caught at such disadvantage if it charges him again.

But he doesn't draw steel, though, because - "You talk," he says to the creature, almost accusingly.

It charges again, but this time Geralt is ready for it. He uses its momentum against it, taking its weight and pivoting to slam the creature down onto its back in the dirt. He follows it down and gets an arm across its throat.

"Of course I talk," it snaps, almost disdainfully.

Geralt ignores this. "What happened with you," he sneers, taking in its caprine features - the horns, the ears, the horizontally-barred pupils of its eyes - "Your mother fuck a goat?" It's unfair and cruel of him and he knows it, but he's beyond done with all of this and yet destiny, the bitch, keeps dragging him along with no chances to get out. And besides, Geralt is going to have bruises on both chest and back from the creature's initial rush, so he feels sort of justified in taking some of it out on the goat-man.

The creature calls itself Torque the Sylvan, a 'rare and intelligent' creature. Which, by strictest definition of those words, sure, but the way he says it just sounds pretentious.

"You're a dick," Geralt corrects him, then adds, thinking of the fucking iron the sylvan had shot at him earlier and almost laughing, "with balls."

"Balls I got from humans," the sylvan says, "who left our food filled with iron meant to poison me!" He lashes out, catches a chunk of Geralt's hair, and yanks. Geralt snarls as it tears loose from the root. "Did _your_ mother fuck a snowman?"

Geralt allows himself the small satisfaction of punching the sylvan in retaliation for that one, but pulls the blow so it does no more than stun him for a moment. It diverts the worst of his anger, though, and he's a little calmer when he says, "You are intelligent, I'll give you that. So I won't kill you. But you can't stay here." Because if the humans have tried traps of iron and hired a witcher, it's only a matter of time before a mob finds its way up the valley to roust the creature out themselves.

But before he can say any of that, the sylvan looks past him and says simply, "Neither can you."

* * *

He wakes up.

_Fuck_. Can he not catch a break at all today?

Worse, he's bound, tied up back to back with none other than the little shit. Who, it seems, is unfazed even by getting knocked out and imprisoned. "This is the part where we escape," he says, like Geralt is an actor who forgot his next line and needs prompting.

He's going to throttle the little shit the second he gets his hands free. This isn't a fucking play.

For the moment he settles for snarling back, since the boy doesn't seem to have properly grasped the situation, "This is the part where they kill us."

Fuck, he hopes he's right about that.

“Who’s _they?”_ the boy asks, sounding a little nervous. Maybe Geralt actually got through to him finally. He wouldn’t put money on it, but he supposes anything is possible.

“Elves,” he growls as two of them come into the cave. One heads for their belongings, the other comes at them with violent intent written clear as day in every line of her body.

Sure enough, she lashes out with a kick that snaps Geralt’s head to the side, shouting in Elder. Geralt’s ears are ringing from the kick too much to hear what she says. His attention is dragged back by the sudden squirming behind him.

“Oi!” the little shit yells. “That’s my lute - give that back!” There’s a dissonant jangle as the other elf does something ungentle to the instrument, and the little shit yanks at their bonds again. “Quick, Geralt, do your - your witchering,” he demands.

“Shut up,” Geralt snaps.

The she-elf takes exception to that, though, aiming another kick to his thigh. “No, _you_ shut up,” she says, still in Elder.

“Oh, my elder speech is rough,” the bard trills sarcastically. “I only got part of that.”

“Humans, _shut up,”_ she says in Common.

So of course the bard replies in polished, classroom-taught Elder, showing off his knowledge, “Ah, got it, thanks so much.” He really _is_ going to get both of them killed. Geralt almost laughs.

“Do you wanna die right now?” the she-elf asks, silky and threatening.

“As opposed to later?” Geralt says dryly. He feels like just answering ‘yes’ would only muddy the waters further, but if he takes the little shit’s tactic of deliberately pissing the elves off…

“No,” the little shit ignores the threat of the she-elf to yell at the other elf, who’s doing something else to his lute, “not the lute -”

Her next kick is aimed, not at Geralt, but at the little shit behind him, cutting him off with a sharp grunt. He feels the impact slam through the boy’s chest into his back. And that - well, he might have deserved it, a little bit, but he’s a human, and they’re so fucking fragile. He’s just a stupid, hapless bard who bumbled on after a witcher and wound up dragged into this situation on accident; he doesn’t deserve this.

“Leave off!” Geralt snarls at the she-elf, trying to draw her attention - and her ire - back to himself. He can handle it, and if he plays this right she might finish him off and really, it’s just a win-win all around as long as he can keep her away from the squishy human behind him. “He’s just a bard,” he adds. A young, idiotic, irritating, bard, who nevertheless doesn’t deserve to die like this.

His gambit clearly worked, because she prowls back around to face him, taut fury radiating from her in waves like a physical force. All that rage coalesces into the blow she aims at his face, nearly strong enough to crack his jaw.

“You don’t deserve the air you breathe.” That’s fair. He really doesn’t.

Another punch. “Everything you touch, you destroy!” Geralt remembers Renfri, her blood warm on his hands, on his face. His mouth against her throat the night before, kisses pressed to the very spot where the knife slid through under his hand and left her bleeding out in his arms. He wants to laugh, harsh and bitter. The she-elf’s words are truer than she could possibly know.

She hits him again, follows it up with a knee slammed into his face. Vaguely, as if from a long ways away, he hears the jangling crunch of the little shit’s lute breaking in the other elf’s hands.

And then the little shit's voice rings out, dripping with contempt and showcasing the full volume of his bardic…well, talent might not be the right word, but something deliberate, adding emphasis to his performance as he berates the she-elf.

“You _hide_ in your golden palaces,” he sneers. “You beat a bound man, too scared to even look him in the eye!” He’s shouting, raw with fury, by the end of it. Geralt blinks, thrown off by the vehemence of it. Is the bard…defending him? Why?

The she-elf doesn’t rise to the bait. “Do you like my palace?” she asks the boy, light and venomous, then crouches in front of Geralt. Her hand grips his chin, forces his face up to meet her burning gaze. “Does it live up to the tales you _humans_ tell?”

Foolish of her, getting so close, thinking him no threat simply because they’ve tied his hands. Geralt doesn’t stop to think, just snaps his head forward and bashes into her face, sending her sprawling back. He can smell the blood dripping from her nose, dripping from where her teeth cut her lip upon impact. She coughs, choking on it.

Behind him, the little shit laughs. It’s a startlingly vicious sound. “Yeah, take that, pointy!” But the she-elf’s coughing and wheezing continues. When she makes no move to rise and return to her assault on them, the little shit’s victory turns to confusion. “Wait, what’s wrong with her?”

Before Geralt can hazard a guess, two other figures enter the cave: the sylvan from before, and another elf, a blonde man with tired eyes. “She’s sick,” the elf snaps as they crouch by the she-elf’s side.

“Oh, and who’s this?” The boy sounds exasperated, as though having to keep track of the growing cast of characters in this farce is some kind of personal insult.

Cast of characters, Geralt thinks disgustedly at himself. The little shit’s dramatics are rubbing off on him already.

“He’s Filavandrel,” the sylvan explains. “King of the elves.”

“Not a King,” Filavandrel denies the title almost angrily, then adds, “Not by choice.”

Seeing the way the sylvan assists the unwilling elf-King crystallizes the situation in Geralt’s mind. “You were stealing for them,” he says to the sylvan.

“I felt for them,” the sylvan replies defensively. “They were forced out of Dol Blathanna -”

“Forced out?” the little shit protests. He really can’t read a room, can he, Geralt thinks. “No, they chose -”

Filavandrel whips around at that. “Do you know anyone that would _choose_ to leave their home? To starve? To have a sylvan steal for them?”

That shuts the bard up. Into the sudden heavy silence, the sylvan gently remonstrates with the she-elf. “Toruviel, no one was supposed to get hurt.”

“What’s two humans in the ground when countless elves have died?” Toruviel demands, giving not an inch in the face of the sylvan’s censure.

Privately, Geralt would admit she has a point, except - “ _One_ human,” he corrects her sharply. “And you can let him go.” It doesn’t really seem fair to drag the little shit into Geralt’s death wish, never mind that he was the one who attached himself to Geralt’s side in the first place.

Filavandrel shakes his head. “Then Posada will learn that we’ve been stealing. The humans will attack.” He rises to his feet and leaves Toruviel’s side to come stand over his prisoners instead. “Many will die,” he continues, “on both sides.”

Geralt laughs a little, bitterly, and looks up at the elf-King as he reasons his way to killing both prisoners. “The lesser evil,” he says, mouth twisting at the memories. He meets Filavandrel’s eyes, willing him to understand. “No matter what you choose, you’ll come out bloody and hating yourself. Trust me.”

He’s not asking for his own life, here - but gods, the bloody hands and broken heart of choosing the ‘lesser evil’ is something he wouldn’t wish on anyone. Plus there’s the little shit to think of, and Geralt is still hoping he can negotiate the boy’s way out, at least, if not his own.

But Filavandrel shakes his head again, crouching before Geralt. “That’s the problem,” he explains, “I can’t.” He shifts, reaching beneath his tunic for the weapon sheathed at his waist. “This is necessary,” he says as he stands. He says it like he’s not sure who he’s trying to convince, Geralt or himself.

Damn the elven bastard’s stubbornness! Geralt looks up at him, letting his disdain for the elf-King’s unwillingness to listen show clearly on his face. “I understand,” he says, in a voice that would almost be sympathetic if not for the frustration beneath it. “As long as you understand that it won’t be long before you follow me in death.” The elves can’t survive like this, not long-term. Having a sylvan steal for them will only work for so long. Killing Geralt and the bard to keep their secret is just delaying the problem a little longer - it won’t buy their safety. Why won’t the King see that?

“Yes,” Filavandrel agrees, “because they pushed us from viable soil. Even Chaos is polluted - synthetically enhanced so that humans can make magic.”

“Chaos is the same as it’s always been,” Geralt argues. “Humans just…adapted better.”

Filavandrel scoffs at that. “You say adapt, I say destroy.”

What will it take to get through to him? “You are choosing to starve,” Geralt says. “You’re cutting off your ear to spite your face.”

The verbal slap lands, hard. Filavandrel flinches at that, rocks back. “You think this is about pride?” he spits. “My elders worked with humans and got robbed of all they had. And when they fought back, they were slaughtered.” He takes a ragged breath. “The Great Cleansing, humans call it.” He looks away, naked grief splayed across his features. “I called it digging a mass grave for everyone I loved.”

Geralt lets his gaze drop, the pain in Filavandrel’s voice calling up echoes in his mind. Memories tangle themselves around his thoughts. The outer wall of Kaer Morhen, once standing proud, now crumbling away. The mass graves after the sacking, too many bodies to give them the dignity of the pyres they should have had. With so few survivors left to clean up the carnage, it was all they could manage. There are bones in the depths of the ravine, still.

“And now the humans proudly watch these very fields grow,” Filavandrel says roughly. “Our babies fertilizer for their grain.” His voice softens, saddens. “I don’t wish to bury anyone else.”

Looking up, Geralt watches a hint of battered pride fill the tired eyes. “I was once Filavandrel of the silver towers,” the elf-King says. “Now, I’m Filavandrel of the edge of the world.” He shakes his head. “If I bring my people down from these mountains it would mean bowing to human sovereignty. They’ll make slaves of us - pariahs of half-blood children.”

“Then go somewhere else,” Geralt says through gritted teeth. It’s the same plea he once made of Renfri: walk away. Don’t force this to happen. “Rebuild. Get strong again. Show the humans that you are more than what they fear you to be.” _Leave Blaviken, and finally live,_ he hears echoing in his mind. He couldn’t convince her. Maybe he can convince him.

He fails. Again.

Filavandrel’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Like you, witcher?” he asks.

Geralt would laugh, if he thought he could do it without shattering apart at the sound. “I have learned to live with them,” he says simply, “so that I may live.”

He’s such a fucking liar.

Toruviel scrambles to her feet, perhaps sensing fertile ground for her arguments - a crack in Filavandrel’s isolationist resolve. “Please, my King,” she says. “There are others. A new generation. Evellien who wish to fight.” She grins, sharp and bloodthirsty. “Let us take back what’s ours. Starting now.” The tilt of her head toward the seated prisoners leaves no doubt as to her meaning.

Filavandrel doesn’t speak, doesn’t look away from where he’s meeting Geralt’s eyes. He draws his blade, slow and deliberate; his expression settles into resolve, his choice made. That’s it, then.

The relief that washes over Geralt at it is only soured by the regret of not being able to get the bard out of the line of fire first. It’s sort of the boy’s own fault, but still. One more guilt to carry to whatever afterlife awaits something like him. He hopes there’s nothing - just insensate darkness where he can finally fucking rest. He’ll find out soon enough.

The sylvan grabs at Filavandrel’s arm. “Wait,” he begs.

“Torque, stand aside,” Filavandrel snaps.

But he doesn’t. “The witcher could have killed me,” Torque says. “But he didn’t. He’s different - like us.”

It’s a small comfort, but Geralt feels…seen. Seen for what he is, not just another human to dispose of, but something as Other as the sylvan and the elves. He holds that tiny comfort close even as the elf-King violently shakes the sylvan’s grip off and steps forward.

“If you must kill me,” Geralt says quietly, “I am ready. But the sylvan’s right.” He gives Filavandrel a small, twisted smile. “Don’t call me human.”

Filavandrel doesn’t reply, only moves to one side of him, readying himself to strike.

Geralt tips his head back, bares his throat for Filavandrel's blade. A strange blend of anticipation and relief sings along his nerves, and he lets his eyes close. The elf-King will make it quick and clean, Geralt knows. It'll be as close to painless as this sort of thing can be, and then it will all finally be _over_.

The touch of steel is a cold, bright line across his skin. He welcomes it as though it were the touch of a lover, waits for it to dig deeper.

And then it’s…gone.

Gone?

He hears Filavandrel step back. Geralt blinks his eyes open, cautiously lowering his chin back down, and turns his head to see what the fuck is happening.

The elf-King has lowered his blade and is giving them a haunted look. “Perhaps you’re right, witcher,” he says heavily. “I find that killing a bound man as he offers his throat to my knife does not sit so well with me as I thought, even if it is the lesser evil.” With a sigh, Filavandrel crouches beside them and uses his dagger to cut the ropes binding them instead, then stands and sheathes it.

Geralt stares, blankly, the shock and betrayal of his sudden freedom burning through his bones. He rubs at the marks about his wrists absently. He wants to protest, wants to try to explain that he hadn’t been pleading for his own life, only trying to caution the elf-King against relying on the ‘lesser evil’ in general. This isn’t - this isn’t what he wanted. How could the bastard have gotten it so wrong?

Filavandrel is still talking. Geralt drags his attention back with an effort.

“And yet,” he says, “I must protect my people and find a way forward for us during these dark times. I would ask that you not speak of us to the humans in Posada.”

“I won’t,” Geralt says automatically.

Behind him, the little shit stirs and adds, “ _We_ won’t.”

Filavandrel nods his thanks, but Geralt’s mind is already running ahead of them and without thinking he says, “This is only delaying the issue. What you’re doing here, hiding and stealing to survive - it won’t work in the long run. Even if we keep your secret, what happens if they hire another witcher more willing to kill on sight than I was? What happens if they gather a mob and come for you themselves?” His lips twist and he parrots the elf-King’s line back to himself. “May will die on both sides.”

There’s a brief silence, then the King asks quietly, “You would truly have us go elsewhere? Where?”

Geralt climbs to his feet and shrugs. That part isn’t his problem to solve. Well, strictly speaking none of it is, his damnable habit of getting involved notwithstanding, but - “Anywhere you can find sufficient arable land to support your folk.”

"A pretty thought," Filavandrel says, "but where would we get the seed stock we would need? The materials to build shelters? Chickens and goats for eggs and milk?"

On a mad impulse, Geralt reaches into his belt pouch and pulls out the little sack of coin he'd gotten from the farmer in Posada. Extracting a single coin, he hands the rest of the bag to the elf-King. He hopefully won't need the money anyway. After all, there's always the next coin-flip.

He holds the bag out to Filavandrel. "Your people need this more than I."

Filavandrel takes it, hesitantly, eyes flicking from Geralt’s eyes to the bag in his hand.

The moment shatters like glass when Toruviel surges forward, her shocked and silent dismay at the turn of events kindling anew into fury. "My King," she says sharply, "Are you truly considering this? That we should abandon our land and simply _let_ the humans have it?"

"I am considering choosing life over pride, yes," Filavandrel says evenly.

Toruviel scoffs. "And what use is life, without pride?" She spins on her heel and storms out without waiting for an answer. At Filavandrel's nod the sylvan follows after her.

Geralt can practically hear the sigh Filavandrel bites back.

"Your things are there," the elf-King says with a nod toward one corner of the cave. "I must ask again for your discretion. I would have your word on that."

"Gladly," Geralt says. "I will not tell the folk of Posada of you and yours, here in the hills. You have my word."

The boy, standing at Geralt's elbow, nods. "I promise you, I will share nothing that will lead them to come after you here."

Filavandrel seems satisfied with that. "Very well," he says, and turns to go.

The bard barely waits for Filavandrel to finish speaking before he all but flies to the corner where their belongings lie. He kneels, picking up the broken remains of his instrument. "Not that I could bear tales even if I wished. Can't perform without an instrument," he murmurs sadly, more to himself than to them.

Geralt feels the unpleasant stirring of some nameless emotion in his chest as he watches the little shit's dexterous fingers trace lightly over the splintered wood. Preoccupied thus, he scarcely notices Filavandrel pausing in the doorway, only half-hears him tell them to wait where they are for a moment.

Gritting his teeth against the heavy, sour taste of the bard's sadness in the air, Geralt walks over and reclaims his sword. He's just finished buckling the straps that secure it into its familiar place across his back when he hears the elf-King return.

But before Geralt even finishes turning to look, the little shit has scrambled up and pushed past him. His scent is no longer heavy with sadness, but bright with curiosity, and Geralt follows to see what could have caused such a sudden change.

Filavandrel is carrying a lute. Geralt's no expert, but it looks finely crafted even to his layman's eyes, and the almost reverent look on the bard's face confirms it.

"I find there is no music left in me, these days," Filavandrel says, holding the instrument out for the boy to take. "And she deserves better than to molder away in some forgotten corner of an abandoned cave. You will do her more justice than I can, now."

Privately Geralt remembers the little shit's rather disastrous performance in the tavern back in Posada. He's not so sure he agrees with the elf-King's claim, but he keeps the thought to himself.

The bard accepts the instrument in trembling hands, eyes gleaming with nearly transcendent awe. His fingers stroke the polished wood so gently it almost hurts to watch.

At last he drags his eyes away from the lute and looks up to meet the elf's eyes. The boy bows, deep and sincere. "Thank you, Filavandrel, King of the elves."

Filavandrel gives a solemn nod. "You are welcome…?"

The silence hangs a half a second too long before the little shit realizes what he's waiting for. "Oh!" he says, face warming visibly. "Oh, sorry. Jaskier."

A buttercup, pretty on the surface but poison underneath if disturbed. It suits him, Geralt thinks.

"You are welcome, Jaskier the Bard."

* * *

The solemnly awed mood lasts all of ten minutes, just long enough to see them back onto the trail out of the valley before it cracks and the little - _Jaskier’s_ irrepressible ebullience reasserts itself.

"Whoo!" the bard exclaims. Geralt represses a sigh as he bids farewell to the blessed silence he'd barely gotten a chance to enjoy. "What an adventure that was!"

Geralt snorts. _Adventure_. That's a hell of a euphemism for it.

"Credit where credit is due," Jaskier rambles on. "That reverse-psychology thing you did on them was brilliant." He drops his voice into a lower register and attempts, badly, to mimic Geralt's rough timbre. "'Kill me, I'm ready.'"

Geralt twists in the saddle to give the boy an incredulous look. He's not sure what he takes more offense to: the terrible impression or the careless dismissal of an entirely genuine offer as nothing more than a - a _tactic_. He supposes he should probably be grateful that the boy - that Jaskier doesn't realize just how seriously he meant it. Humans get weird about that kind of thing, he's learned.

His glare subdues the bard for a moment, and Geralt turns back forward. Alas, it only lasts for as long as it takes the boy to draw breath to start in anew.

"So that's the conclusion," he says. "They just let us go, and you give all of Nettly's coin to the elves."

"Filavandrel's lute not gift enough for you?" Geralt asks. What more could he want? He survived, got a new instrument to replace his old one, what else was he after?

He can _hear_ the grin in Jaskier's voice. "Yeah, she is a bit sexy, isn't she?" There's a brief moment of silence that sounds almost thoughtful. "I do have respect for Filavandrel. He survived the Great Cleansing once. Who knows? Maybe he can do it again. Be… _reborn_."

Jaskier starts singing something, composing lyrics about the elf-king and witcher on the spot. Geralt tries to tune it out, with mixed success. As soon as there's a break in it - Jaskier falling silent, muttering, "Nah, that's…that's shit," - Geralt takes the chance to break in, drawing Roach to a stop.

"This is where we part ways, bard." Before the little shit can argue further, he adds firmly, "For good."

"Look," Jaskier says instead of outright arguing, "I promised to change the public's tune about you. At least allow me to try."

Slippery little bastard. Won't even argue straight, leaving no purchase for Geralt’s counter-arguments.

Jaskier takes his irritated silence as consent, apparently, because he turns back toward the trail and walks on, slinging his lute around to the front and beginning to strum. Geralt lets Roach follow, torn between trying to block it out and listening in a sort of horrified fascination.

He lasts as far as _he can’t be bleat_ \- what does that even _mean?_ \- before his patience snaps. He stops Roach again, glaring at the bard. “That’s not how it happened. Where’s your newfound respect?”

But Jaskier surprises him. He pivots neatly about, song falling silent, and gives Geralt a look that falls just short of outright patronizing. It would be rich, coming from a near-child, but all at once it’s as though the flighty idiot persona has dropped like a mask no longer useful. Between one breath and the next, Geralt finds himself looking at a man with understanding beyond his years shining in those sky-blue eyes.

“Respect doesn’t make history.”

Jaskier drops the words into the silence between them without fanfare, without any of his wild gestures or posturing, gives Geralt a faint crooked almost-smile, and turns back around. He walks on, continuing his song as Geralt stares after him.

It had been only an instant, and yet somehow this man had looked straight through all the layers of armor that Geralt uses to keep the world at bay, physical and otherwise, and _saw him_ in a way no other human ever has. His gaze had burned like blue fire and Geralt can still feel the flames of it licking along his nerves.

_Respect doesn’t make history._ The words rattle around in his mind til he’s almost half-dizzy with them, or maybe with the aftershocks of Jaskier’s eyes on him. For near a decade now he’s carried the weight of Blaviken, borne the name it gave him like a prisoner’s shackles, and never sought to shed it out of respect for Renfri’s memory. He’s half-idly pursued the release of death as his only escape from the wasteland his failures turned his life into, staked himself on coin-flips and the vagaries of chance but never fully committed himself to it, never quite understanding why.

And now there’s this boy - this _man_ , pretty-poison Jaskier turning everything on its head in four words, and Geralt finally understands. He’d had it wrong all along.

He was never really waiting for permission to die. He was waiting for permission to live again.

Ahead of him the bard sings on, calling him a ‘friend of humanity’. Geralt huffs a little almost-laugh, the most he’s allowed himself in longer than he can remember. He casts his gaze around the valley, the bright summer heat, the sunshine painting shining golden highlights in Jaskier’s hair, and thinks: _maybe it’s not so bad. Maybe it can be worth going on, after all._

“Hm,” he says, setting Roach forward again to follow Jaskier out of Dol Blathanna. He fishes out the single coin he held back from Filavandrel and turns it over in one hand, the other laying light on the reins. Crown, he’ll turn south out of Dol Blathanna and head further down into Aedirn toward Lyria; crest, he’ll keep going west toward the pass into Redania and Temeria. There’s work to be had, in either region. He wonders where the bard is planning to go next.

The coin glitters in the sun as he flips it.

**Author's Note:**

> If any or all of that felt a little too close to home, I hope things get better for you soon. I'm told they can. Take care of yourselves.


End file.
